


Call Sign

by FabulaRasa



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-08
Updated: 2010-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:11:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Politics is hard on everyone, but harder on some than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Sign

**Election Season 2008‎**

‎"Un-fucking-believable."‎

‎"So stop watching." Tom didn't look up from the stack of papers he was reviewing, and his ‎reading glasses were a little cockeyed on his face—the glasses he only ever wore here, behind ‎closed doors, because pilots maintained the illusion of 20/20 vision, even when their forty-fifth ‎birthdays were a year or two in the rearview.‎

‎"I just—I cannot fucking believe it. Every time he says it—every time I read it—I just want to ‎break something."‎

‎"Mm." Tom shuffled through to the next stack. It wasn't like he hadn't heard this before.‎

‎"It's my name, goddamnit!"‎

‎"It's not your actual name, Pete."‎

‎"It's more than my actual name, it's my call sign! It's _my_ goddamn call sign, and every time this ‎fucking windbag opens his flabby lying mouth, every time I have to _read_ it in the paper, every ‎time I have to—it's _my_ fucking name, all right? It's my name! Not his!"‎

Tom snatched the remote, and flicked off the TV. He tossed the remote onto the coffee table, ‎which was stacked with yet more flight trajectories to review. "There. Problem solved."‎

‎"Not hardly. We've got—how many more days until the election?"‎

‎"Twelve, I think." He sucked on the top of his pen, frowning at the print-out propped on his lap.‎

‎"Twelve. Okay. I can make it. I can—I can do this. I can. And after November 4th, I never, ever ‎have to hear anyone call him that, right? This whole situation, it's just going to go away, right? ‎I'll be able to have my life back, and my fucking identity? I'll be able to wake up in the morning ‎and breathe again, and not feel this agonizing crushing destroying weight pressing on my—"‎

‎"Oh for fuck's sake." Tom tossed the papers on the floor after the pen, because clearly this was ‎not going away. There was only one thing that ever made it go away. He slid to his knees. "Look, ‎if I blow you, will you stop?"‎

‎"Well. . ."‎

Tom sighed at the hands folded behind his head, the canary-eating smirk. "Well what?"‎

‎"Maybe if you _say_ it. . ."‎

Tom laughed at that, torn as always between smacking his arrogant head and kissing him ‎senseless. His fingers worked the zipper carefully, easing him out, cradling him. He reached a ‎hand up and brushed his face, the face that went suddenly somber, the way it always did. ‎_Fucking love you_, his heart flopped and said, inside, but he knew those weren't the words ‎needed right now, so he smiled and said them. He knew his part well by now.‎

‎"Okay, fine. There's only one real Maverick. Happy now?"‎

Mav grinned. "Say it again."‎

Ice laughed around his mouthful of cock, and bit him once, not hard, but just to let him know.‎


End file.
